Around seven years ago, I started reading What's the Point of Revolution if We Can't Dance? and I suddenly found myself identifying with the stories I was reading. Parts of the stories expressed my future fears, other parts expressed emotions I was already feeling. I still remember the death of Sunila, the Sri Lankan activist, and the conversation I had about her with a friend. Sunila had advised my friend not to put her personal life on hold for her work in human rights. Yet, I do not remember whether Sunila's advice came after or before her illness and not being able to afford the cost of treatment.